Break
by lostlikealice
Summary: Percy is now a prisoner in the Dark Lord’s dungeon. His only hope is a certain glint in the eye of Marcus Flint. To what depths will Percy sink in order to escape? But there's Blaise Zabini and his plans to worry about as well... M. Slash.
1. 1

A/N: Percival Ignatius Weasley, next Minister of Magic of the United Kingdom, is now a prisoner in the Dark Lord's dungeon. His only hope is a certain glint in the eye of Marcus Flint. To what depths will Percy sink in order to escape?

Slash/yaoi/homosexual relationships. Swearing. Violence. Don't cry to me if you don't like it.

****

Break—Chapter 1

by cyanide blue

****

"You idiot, you stupid bloody idiot, don't you see what you're doing? You're killing Mum and one day you'll realize how wrong you are."

__

Pay attention, Percy. Keep your eyes open, because they're watching you, laughing at you, amused at your agony. They may have control but you have your pride, and no one's taking that away from you.

"At least this one had sense," the man he now knows is Rodolphus Lestrange says. "He left those Mudblood-lovers... he left his family. That's sense."

Charlie's eyes were clouded with tears that day, and Percy refused to believe those tears were genuine, that it was all a ruse, that they were fools. His father, a fool with no sense, poor with no ambition, where will that _get_ you, Father? His mother, investing time and love into her joke of a husband, sacrificing dreams and ambition for her children, why would you waste your time on us? Charlie and Bill and Ron playing Dumbledore's heroes, Fred and George playing court jesters, dear, shy sweet Virginia now one of the roughest Hit Wizards in the Department. You just couldn't stick to the rules, Percy thinks. And now you'll pay for it, and I'm sorry.

Nonsense words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs run through his head, diplomatic and sensible, but you can't file away life or death—or love—and he knows that, deep down.

He'll never be able to apologize. He's going to die, and he knows it.

"Ah, but he followed Fudge." A wicked grin overcomes a face that he recognizes, and he recoils. Bellatrix Lestrange... the Longbottoms... the Longbottom boy, one of those that followed Potter and his little army. First merely a bogey in his head from the stories Mr. Crouch had told, now real. Too real. "Stupid ickle Fudge, who couldn't tell a Death Eater without the Dark Mark tattooed on our foreheads. Fudge's lapdog." She leers at him, and he is unable to not quail at her dark eyes on him.

He coughs, pain racking his throat to his shoulders with his restraints—_Muggle _restraints, no less, how ironic—and winces. "I am no one's lapdog," he manages to say.

Bellatrix Lestrange cups his chin, cackling in his face. "_You are our dog_," she whispers, grinning. "Unless the Master asks for you."

"Rodolphus, call off your wife. The Weasley looks like he's going to piss himself already, we don't need a mess."

Percy freezes at the voice. He knows that voice.

Rodolphus Lestrange sighs. "Flint, keep your nose out of things that don't concern you."

Flint steps into his vision, smirking as though his dreams have come true. "I know him. I know what will make him twitch. Leave him to me, then you can have him for what you will."

Bellatrix glares at Flint and she grabs his shirt collar, yanking him closer with malicious intent. "I've been torturing for longer than you've been alive, little boy."

Rodolphus looks between his wife and Flint and Percy a few times, and comes to a decision. "My love, he may be telling the truth… do you remember the fun we had with Lupin? We knew him… only had to _mention_ a few things and he went mad."

Bellatrix seems to be pleased by that memory and looks to Rodolphus fondly, but looks back to Flint and remembers her purpose. "So?" she scoffs, and pushes Flint away impetuously. "I want him. He'll break." She inspects Percy with an artist's eye—if a sadistic one—and he doesn't move, not wanting to cringe and show his fear at her words.

__

Break? Despite his efforts, he feels himself shaking, and hates himself for it. Flint's eyes lock onto Percy's, and Percy glares back.

"Still with the Mudblood, Weasley?" Flint has never spoken fast or slurred words, like some. Percy now understands why. Flint picks and chooses his words carefully when he decides to speak, as to have the most impact possible when they are finally spoken.

Percy shakes his head, and the faintest traces of bitterness are audible in his voice. "I chose business."

Penny didn't cry when he chose the Ministry over her. She never was one to cry. She just shook her head in mixed disgust and sorrow, said his name in a way made his stomach turn with guilt, and stormed off. He hasn't seen her since.

"So you left the only woman who could likely stand you, nonetheless would be willing to snog you… for _work_. Hmm." Flint taps his lip in mock thought. "Or maybe she left you?" he says, smirking. "Maybe you just couldn't satisfy her?"

Talking to Death Eaters like Bellatrix Lestrange is one thing, but talking to Marcus Flint—who knows him on a strangely personal level for an enemy—is another thing entirely. Percy has to grit his teeth so he doesn't respond.

Bellatrix now eyes Flint with some appreciation. "He wants to hurt you," she giggles. "It's almost _cute_."

"I told you I knew what I was doing." Flint nods to her, clearly pleased at the compliment.

Bellatrix pats Flint on the cheek like a mother giving a young child praise—though, Percy reflects, the idea of Bellatrix as a mother is not a comforting one. "Have fun, ickle boy," she says as she leaves, pulling a slightly put out Rodolphus out of the room and leaving him alone with Flint. The instant they are gone, Flint walks over to the wall where Percy is chained, and cups his chin.

"You're mine now, Weasley," he whispers. "All mine."

Percy sees the glint in Flint's dark eyes and fear drops cold in his stomach.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Flint's grin grows wider—Percy has to resist the urge to cringe at Flint's, well, bad dental health—and he laughs. "No," he says softly. "But I'll make you wish that I did."

And it's abundantly clear from the look in Percy's eyes that, as Flint traces his fingers down Percy's chest, the true torture right now is living.


	2. 2

A/N: One word: Creepy. More Percy/Flint. This fic is my guilty pleasure. Enjoy.

Disclaimer (from FA): This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Break--Chapter 2

by cyanide blue

"They won't let us have any fun, you know," Flint says, and Percy is obviously hesitant to feel sorry for the Death Eater. "We're not allowed to touch the Muggles—like we would want to—but well, the blood traitors? They're entirely free to entertain oneself with."

"Keep your hands off of me, Flint," he snaps, though he knows it'll do no good.

Flint just laughs loudly, mockingly, and says nothing else.

"What have you done?" Percy desperately tries to bring himself to normal, but he's been in these chains for hours? Days? Weeks? Time is an illusion. Pain is real. His voice is harsh, worn, and barely more than a defeated whisper. "What have you done?"

"Me?" Flint looks surprised. "I killed five Aurors and six Mudbloods, so far. Our Lord… he's done much more."

Percy tries not to think about—_oh god oh god Ron is an Auror oh god_—the inevitable, and the truth. Lord Voldemort is back. And is winning.

Or so Flint wants him to think.

"You're lying," Percy says frankly. "You want me to give up hope."

"Why would I lie to you, Percival?" Flint grins appreciatively as Percy cringes at his full name, though he could not know why.

Penelope called him that, in that teasing voice of hers… _Penny… god I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm wrong and I love you._ Now he is nothing to anybody, his family having given up months earlier, his first—and only—love gone in disgust, and the truth of just how alone he is stares him in the face with the dark eyes of Marcus Flint.

He wants to die.

"So I would give up hope. So I would let you do what you will with me." Percy wonders if reverse psychology is true—if he begged for his life, would Flint kill him? Or would he drag it out longer?

"I assure you it's true, Weasley. Surely you've heard the screams from our other residents?" He has. He'll never sleep soundly again, if he lives through this. "This is not a ruse to convince you. It's real. Lord Voldemort," Flint savors the name, "has won."

"But… Harry Potter." Percy, hardly the optimist, has to ask.

Flint visibly pauses. "Don't worry your head over it." He ruffles Percy's hair. "He's ours."

"You haven't found him, have you?" Percy's heart leaps with the slightest hope. Potter could be alive… most certainly he'd keep Ron and Ginny safe if he could. He has to be alive.

Flint's eyes flash dangerously, and he seizes Percy's hair roughly, crushing his lips against Percy's so hard that his head presses against the stone wall. Percy scrabbles to try to push Flint away, but Flint holds him fast. Entirely on instinct, Percy bites down on Flint's lower lip and draws blood. The Death Eater pulls away, touching his lip gingerly.

"Bastard," he murmurs.

Percy blinks. Marcus Flint has just kissed him. Flint is… gay?

"Really want me then, don't you." A dry statement, almost blank words without life, it still manages to catch Flint's ire. Percy winces as Flint backhands him hard.

"You have nothing I would ever want," Flint murmurs in his face—his breath smells coppery and Percy is horrified to note the scent of blood that he drew. "You are a filthy, poor, Mudblood-loving failure."

"Your breath smells like blood," Percy says. "Pure blood."

Flint opens his mouth to speak, but says nothing. His eyes narrow and Percy can't tell exactly what the expression on his face is—hunger, wrath, some sort of odd mix. Percy recoils as Flint leans into him, actually _licking_ his cheek—discomfort and disgust are understatements to the horror Percy feels right now, deep and dark and slithering. "It'll be your blood next," Flint whispers, and with him so close to Percy's ear, Percy can hear him as he licks the blood from his lips. It is not a comforting sound.

Someone near the door clears their throat, and Percy has never been more glad for an interruption.

"Having fun, Marcus?" the person drawls. "I would think you've better taste."

Flint pulls away from him, turning a glare to the person that Percy vaguely recognizes as Zabini, from Potter's class. The boy joined the Ministry two years earlier, right after his graduation, with fantastic marks, a quick business mind and a fondness for the rules. He recalls talk of Zabini being "the next Percy Weasley." The next Percy Weasley, a Death Eater; quite humorous, really.

"It's called torture, Zabini."

"So that's what they call it these days," Zabini says dryly.

"I could take your head off if I liked, Zabini. The Ministry's gone, no one will care if one of our spies is gone. Our Lord wouldn't care. And certainly," Flint snorts, "none of us would care."

"Getting snippy now, tsk tsk." Zabini eyes Flint with distaste, then looks at Percy curiously. "I wouldn't think this is torture, aren't you gay?"

"No," Percy says quickly, indignantly.

"Funny, I always thought you were," Zabini says offhand. "Anyway—Flint, do be careful who you 'torture' next time." He gestures to the open door. "Anyone could see."

Flint grabs Zabini by the shoulders and shoves him into a wall. "I will do as I please, and you will let me do so without oh-so-kindly informing me of your opinion," Flint informs him with gritted teeth. "So go before I rip your bloody head off." He pulls Zabini away from the wall and shoves him towards the door—the younger boy nearly trips but catches himself as he backs out, his eyes wide from Flint's threat.

Flint turns to Percy, and without a word, unlocks the restraints that hold him. Percy collapses to the ground bonelessly, unfortunately about as able to run away as before. He tries to sit up, rubbing his raw wrists gently, attempting to get the blood back in—when he raises his head, he sees Flint's wand directly in his face.

"Think you're better than me now?" Flint's voice is flat.

The question is so unexpected that Percy just stares for a moment. "Yes," he says, and immediately regrets it.

Flint shakes his head, disgust plain on his face. He lifts his wand and with a jerky motion, a spell hits Percy over the head hard. He falls hard onto the stone, barely conscious when Flint slams the door.


	3. 3

A/N: Percy meets a sworn enemy he's never met, and figures out his easiest way out of the prison.

****

Break—Chapter 3

by cyanide blue

Penelope was the Queen of Ithaca—someplace in Greece, though who knew if it really existed—and wife of the king, Odysseus. The Trojan War broke out, and Odysseus took his men to fight. He didn't return from that journey for twenty years' worth of adventures, a span of time in which assuming suitors for his wife's hand ravaged his household and his son grew to be a man without ever knowing his father.

She waited; she had faith. To appease the suitors that overran her house, she claimed she would weave a funeral shroud for her dead husband, and once it was done, she would choose the next man to marry her. Shrewd as she was, she undid the work she did every night so that choice never came.

Shrewd, faithful, distant and loving… Penelope.

As he awakens with bleary eyes, Percy remembers her telling him the story when they met—she was greatly enthused by myths and fables and consumed several books' worth every few weeks as any good Ravenclaw would. She was shy as anything then, unparalleled in her studies but awkward and easily embarrassed when talking to someone outside of her House.

Clearwater was an apt name as well, with her light-blue eyes like the water one always sees in art but never in life, warm and inviting. He thinks now that he was likely in love with her the moment he looked at her, a demure, curly-haired fifteen year old girl with a polished Prefect badge and a Ravenclaw tie.

He wonders if she's changed since the summer of 1994, if she still wears that silver Celtic ring he gave her on her left ring finger, if she even thinks about him any more. And though he doesn't want to consider it, he wonders if she was one of the many Muggleborns who have been tortured, maimed, and killed since war broke out.

"Fuck," he says under his breath. He never swears, though this occasion merits it.

"An apt description of things to come, no doubt. Oh—sorry, no pun intended." Percy raises his head. It's Zabini again.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask you to go away," Percy says.

"I'll do as I please. If our dear Marcus gets that right, I get it as well. So, yes. Your request will not be granted. So sorry." Zabini grins.

"Burn in Hell."

"I suppose that's where I'm headed already, if it even exists. Then again, the things you've done… you're headed there with me, Weasley. Funny ole world, isn't it? No matter what side you choose, you end up at the same place."

Percy would argue the point, but treason is treason, despite circumstances like whom it is against and reasons why. He recalls reading in a Muggle book that the ninth circle of Hell is reserved for turncoats and backstabbers. Funny ole world, indeed, that he can think of Muggle literature when caged within a Death Eater cell in which he will likely die.

"I suppose so," Percy concedes.

Zabini steps closer. "You know, Weasley, you've been quite a roadblock in my political path. It's always Percy Weasley this and Percy Weasley that. Ten OWLs, Head Boy, ten NEWTs… there was no way I was going to get the Head Boy position, unknown as I was—had to be Malfoy or Potter, naturally it was Potter… with Malfoy's father in Azkaban? No way. Nine OWLs, ten NEWTs. Living in your bloody shadow. I was considering poisoning you or the like, did you know that?" He shrugs. "Then this happened. I suppose the Ministry is obsolete. Too bad, I enjoyed the challenge."

"The Ministry survived one war. They can survive another." Blind faith. Percy has no other option.

"The Dark Lord has learned his lessons well. He's not irrationally stumbling into Dumbledore's traps this time around. He's being careful." Zabini smirks. "You chose the wrong side, Weasley. He would like your ambition. You could have gone far. Instead, you're here."

"There is no way that a Weasley could sign up for the Dark side without getting killed, Zabini."

"You could have been a spy. It's a cushy job, spying. You get paid by both sides and if you're really good, you can double-cross both of them at the same time." Zabini suddenly winces, hand quickly slamming over his left arm. "Shite!"

Percy stares in fascination. The Dark Mark is burning on Zabini… a Protean Charm. He of course knows how it is done, but in action, it proves the Dark Lord's dominion. With a simple touch, he can turn hundreds into quivering masses of pain.

A woman's scream suddenly echoes, and Percy starts. He stares out the open door, suddenly realizing his opportunity. He attempts to stand and run, but he has barely the energy to walk. Zabini yells, "Don't fucking move!" and Percy ignores him, staggering on his weak legs towards the open door.

"_Crucio_!"

He hits the ground, every nerve in his body enveloped with pain. He screams, trying to beg for his death, but it comes out first as nonsense then one long, anguished cry until his throat feels like it's going to bleed. His mind goes numb, and he feels suddenly divorced from his body, from the pain. Moments later the wand is raised and when he manages to pry his eyelids open, he sees Rodolphus Lestrange standing above him.

"Ah-ah-ah." Rodolphus shakes his finger at Percy. "Not getting out of here that easily." Percy is somewhat puzzled that the man seems to be standing, perfectly fine, though Zabini is curled up on the floor in agony, until Rodolphus looks over to Zabini and laughs. "Two years and you're still turning into jelly over it? Oh, honestly."

"Not all of us have been with the Dark Lord since the dawn of time, Lestrange," Zabini manages to say. Percy wishes he could walk over and kick Zabini in the face.

Rodolphus cringes slightly, and Percy notes that his hand is also clamped over the Mark. "You say that as though it's a bad thing. Now get up, boy, or I'll give you to my wife." Percy thinks momentarily that this is directed at him, and struggles up. Rodolphus promptly knees Percy in the stomach, and he hits the ground hard yet again. "I meant Zabini. You're staying here."

Zabini hobbles into Percy's pain-blurred vision. "You think you're funny, don't you, Rodolphus," he grumbles.

  
"I think I outrank you, and thus I am correct. My sense of humor is not the point of dispute here." 

"Lucius outranks you, what do you have to say about that?"

"I say that you had better bloody go before I lock you up in those chains for Flint to find."

Zabini shrugs, though looks a bit more wary than earlier. "As you will," he says, and Apparates away. Rodolphus grins at Percy, who simply returns a wide-eyed stare, and locks the door.

"Didn't think I was going to give you another chance to run, did you?" the man laughs, and Apparates away with a pop as well.

Percy considers the stone walls with less of despair and more of a scientific logic. If the Death Eaters are all called to the meeting, it means that none of them are patrolling the dungeon. After a few bungled attempts, he manages to get to a shaky standing and walk over to the door of his cell. "Who's out there?" he calls, his voice catching and throat burning at the rememberance of the Cruciatus Curse.

"Percy? Percy Weasley?" a male voice calls back from far away. "Where are you? Merlin, how long have you been here?"

Percy blinks, trying to process the familiar voice. "Lee—Lee Jordan!"

  
"One and the same—amazed that you remember me, big shot."

"Not much of a big shot now, am I. Doesn't matter much here. Lee… you're an Auror, correct?" He clears his throat, as it becomes quite difficult to speak loud enough for Lee to hear him.

"We have a sodding Auror here and we're still stuck here? So much for the Ministry elite!" another male voice says.

"What Ministry?" Lee asks scornfully. "The Ministry is gone. Couldn't withhold the siege… the building couldn't take it any more. We scattered, I got caught by a trained niffler. Clearly you can't do much better, whoever the hell you are!"

"Is Ron alive?" Percy attempts to yell, but his aching throat fails him. "Is Ron alive?"

"I don't know, he and Hermione went with Lupin and I've heard Lupin ended up here… he might be, he might be here. I don't know, Percy. Wish I did."

"And Harry?" There is dead silence at the question, even from Lee. "Harry Potter?"

"He's gone," someone else says, a female voice from a cell across the way; Percy strains to look through the bars of the window, but sees only stone. "He Apparated away from the Ministry siege and that's the last I've seen of him."

Something clicks with her voice. "Who is that?"

"Padma Patil, Experimental Charms by trade and Muggleborn protection by hobby. I burn any hunted Muggleborn's fingerprints off, give them a potion that'll throw any trained animals off, and forge new papers for them. Those bastards burned my house down, along with all my equipment… I fled to the Ministry a few hours before the siege. They got me there—though Malfoy had his bit of fun with me before he brought me here."

  
Percy flinches at what she might mean, but doesn't ask any further. "We have to do something," he says. "We can't just sit here."

The same mocking voice as before speaks again. "Isn't that an idea… well, we'll just get our wands out and you know, hex the cells open. Easy as that, right?"

"Shut your face, Smith," Padma snaps. "No one wants to hear your shite. He's right—if a tad too hopeful."

"All right, then, any ideas, Weasley? Or how about using your elite Auror skills, Jordan? Really, unless you've got wandless magic, you've got no chance. Suppose we just wait for Potter to break us out, then."

Percy stares out of his cell at the stone wall ahead of him. He wants to be sick. He knows his ticket out.

"I suppose we must." He drops to the floor, and waits for Flint. There is not much else he can do but wait.


	4. 4

A/N: I'm sorry, Percival Weasley, Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic isn't here at the moment. He's currently locked in a Death Eater dungeon, going mad. I'll tell him you stopped by. Good afternoon, sir.

****

Break—Chapter 4

Thankfully, when the door opens again, it is neither of the Lestranges nor Zabini—it is Flint, and he is very unhappy indeed. Percy has been faking sleep or unconsciousness, though they seem to be one and the same in this environment. Flint walks over to him and swiftly kicks him in the side. He doesn't want to, but he cries out at the pain of a boot in the ribs.

"Up, Weasley," Flint snarls.

Percy considers the logic of a man who would kick another in the ribs to make him stand, and chooses instead to give logic a miss. Still clutching his side, he looks up to Flint, keeping his face utterly blank.

"Where'd you go?" Percy says.

This approach takes Flint aback. "It's none of your damned business. You expect me to tell you things? You're the prisoner."

"Zabini's Mark was burning. _He_ called you, didn't he? What did he say?"

Flint's anger flares, and he backhands Percy across the same cheek he did last time. There's going to be one hell of a bruise there, Percy thinks numbly above the pain. "Again, none of your business. What do you care? Your only concern should be me and when I'm going to kill you."

"I'm not yours anymore," Percy says offhand, allowing his eyes to wander, inspect the uneven walls. "I've never been yours. Don't fool yourself… I die when your Lord commands it. Why kill the entertainment?"

Percy feels a hop of triumph in his stomach. Flint is getting angrier with every passing second. "Don't you dare presume what the Dark Lord will choose to do. You are nothing compared to Him—you can't comprehend his reasons."

"Zabini said the Dark Lord would like me," he continues in the same wheedling, spacey tone, never looking directly at Flint. "I have ambition. You know, motivation. I don't care about Muggleborns or purebloods or anything, I just want my piece."

  
Flint seizes Percy's chin and forces Percy to look him in the face. "Zabini knows nothing of the Dark Lord. Zabini shouldn't even be here."

Percy lets his gaze rest right past Flint's shoulder. "He seems to be doing quite well, as far as I can tell. Spies are useful… he told me so."

"He came in here yesterday?" Something is new in Flint's voice—a kind of frantic anger. "I am going to kill that idiot with my bare hands, I told him to stay the hell away."

Percy says nothing, still looking past Flint towards the bars as though expecting another visitor at any moment. Flint looks back with inklings of paranoia, but shakes his head, glaring back to Percy. "Look at me, you fucking waste. Look at me or I'll kill you."

"You're killing me anyway… perhaps I'd prefer sooner rather than later?" Percy shrugs, attempting to get past Flint. He simply stares in confusion and shoves Percy back into the wall.

"No," Flint says. "No." He presses Percy into the wall and slowly strokes a finger along the line of Percy's chin, eyes tracing the motion. "Have no delusions of grandeur… Lord Voldemort doesn't care about you, Weasley. He doesn't care if you live or die. He only cares that Harry Potter dies… you're essentially loot that we're allowed to keep. Prisoners of war."

Percy worries his lower lip between his teeth. "May I ask a question?" he says.

Flint pauses, then scowls, clearly puzzled by the obvious change of pace. "Yes, you may."

"My brothers. My sister. Any of them. All of them. Are any of them here?"

Flint smirks. "What do you care? You followed that old duffer Fudge. Or should I say, the late duffer Fudge. Lucius finished having fun with him yesterday."

Percy doesn't know what to think of that declaration—as shock, horror and sorrow don't quite fit it—so says nothing at all to it. "Are they here?"

Flint hesitates. "One of your idiot twins is here. I haven't seen the other. The older one's been giving us trouble, too."

"Bill?" Bill wouldn't be captured… Bill's the smart one, the clever one, he's never lost at anything. There's no way he'd be in this hell. Percy shakes his head, forcing his imagination not to wander to what might be happening to his brothers. "…Thank you, Flint," he says eventually.

"You now, however, owe me something." Flint smiles at that, and it is more frightening than his smirk. "And that, Weasley, is a dangerous thing."

"What do I owe you?" Percy has nothing. That's clear enough from his physical state. "Anything. Even more so with the more you tell me. I don't care. They're all that matters." The words spill from his mouth unbidden and he stops, appalled at his sentimentality. He watches amusement play along Flint's features.

Flint brushes a thumb gently against Percy's cheek, and the motion contrasts wildly with the greedy look in his eyes. It is needless to state his surprise, then, when Flint leans in and kisses him with the same mix of desire and tenderness. He finds it more prudent to let Flint do what he will at this moment, and does nothing, remaining frozen. However, with a single touch Flint arches Percy's neck and as the kiss grows deeper, he feels his breath tighten in his chest.

__

No. This is Flint. A Death Eater. No, what are you doing? You are not going to participate in this madness.

He considers that, but for some reason his body won't react, his hands won't move to push the Death Eater away, and oh gods, his lips are actually moving… against…

Percy of course creates a practical reason—Flint would kill him, after all. He has to, and perhaps Flint will tell him more if Percy satisfies him enough. When Flint pulls away, there is a sort of mix of cruelty and amusement.

  
"You like that?" Flint whispers in a drawling tone. "Won that bet… we had bets on, you know. Thought that Wood was shagging the Mudblood and you were really a pouf in disguise. Ends up we're right."

"You are," Percy says, and they're so close that his lips brush Flint's again. Now with their eyes locked, he feels a lurch of disgust that he actually might have enjoyed… "You are, why would you mock me for it?"

"Because," a now familiar voice comes, "he is a hypocrite."

Percy looks around Flint, and sees Zabini there—he now keeps his eyes on the younger boy. "Yes," he echoes, watching Zabini carefully. Zabini gazes back, curious at Percy's actions.

Flint glares at Zabini, and turns back, seizes Percy's chin, kissing him and almost taking his mouth by force. Percy can't help but automatically struggle, but nothing comes of it. Zabini makes a sound of vague disgust somewhere in the back of Percy's hearing. "Fine, I can see you're busy, but Rodolphus wants you. Jordan's being a handful again."

Flint releases Percy, who tries desperately to catch his breath. Flint seems unruffled excepting his cheeks are a shade pink. "Rodolphus can handle Jordan. He's always pulling rank, he should be able to manage one Auror without me."

"You deal with him then," Zabini says. "Bellatrix is out for blood as well. I wouldn't want to cross him, you know how protective she can get. He's no weakling either."

"Fine, just stop _nagging_," Flint says, aggravated by the logic, yet he doesn't move.

"Careful, Flint, someone might notice a… weakness," Zabini says. "Best to keep to business."

"Tell that to Malfoy. I heard he's been fucking both the Patils."

"At once?" Zabini says, deadpan.

"Not at once." Flint rolls his eyes.

"Either way, this—" he gestures to the uncomfortably warm position in which Flint and Percy are entangled— "is not prudent."

"Fine." Flint moves away, and Percy sinks back onto the ground, silent and vulnerable. Flint watches him as he reaches for his glasses and absently cleans them, despite that one of the lenses is cracked. He shakes his head after a moment, grabs Zabini by the shoulder and yanks him out of the room, locking the door behind them.

Percy stares at the door.

__

"Are you all right, then?" An echo from… eternity. From before he'd gotten in here, before he'd become nothing more than loot to these people. The Muggle woman who'd found him on the streets of Muggle London when he'd haphazardly Apparated away from the Ministry, missing his target of Charlie's flat entirely. Frenzied and paranoid, he had scrabbled away from her touch.

Food. He closes his eyes with the memory. The woman had made cooked carrots, he recalls, some sort of roast beef as well. He can't remember the last time he's eaten. She'd given him new clothes, puzzling at his robes and eventually tossing them into the laundry.

"You can call me Claudia," she'd said, but only for the sake of niceties, he'd thought. He hadn't called her anything at all, since he hadn't spoken a word since his arrival. Five days he slept on her couch and ate her food, until they'd finally found him.

He remembers the mess they made of the woman's house, broken crockery; he wonders if Claudia the Muggle is still alive, dead, or worse.

There is no guilt, just hunger and a selfish, rodent-like scrabbling need to survive. And he will, oh, he will. He is not a hero, who dies for a cause; he is a man, who lives for himself.

**__**

"Your family, your family, remember your family, dear Percival, don't you remember your family?"

"Go away, Penny," he mumbles into his knees. "You shouldn't be here. Go away."

**__**

"They love you."

"I can't do anything for them, here."

**__**

"Then go."

"I can't just _go_."

**__**

"You can't let him do that to you."

"I'm mad," he says. "I'm mad."

****

"Kill him."

"No."

But the thought is so tempting, his hands around Flint's neck—no, but torture first—_"I'll make you wish you were dead, Flint,"_ his same mocking words shot back at him, and oh, Cruciatus… his mental anguish only a whisper of the pain Flint would feel.

"No," he repeats, rebelliously, as though the word could expel the idea from his head.

Nonononononono.

He breathes slowly. He opens his eyes. He stares at the door.

"Kill him," he mouths, then closes his eyes and sleeps.


	5. 5

A/N: Wake up, Weasley. Because the time for games is over. Wake up. Your turn is next.

Break—Chapter 5

by cyanide blue

There's a light clink on the stone floor. Percy wakes quickly, his eyes snapping open, his heart racing.

"Wake up, Weasley," someone says. "Food."

Percy looks up. It's Zabini. He looks at Percy, Percy looks back. There's a scraping sound and the edge of a bowl nudges against Percy's knee as Zabini attempts in vain to get a response. Percy looks down to see a bowl of watery, lukewarm vegetable soup.

"Lucius said to feed everyone, so hop to, sir yes sir, here I am." He sits, watching Percy. "Between you and me, this is shite. I ought to be doing something useful. I'm intelligent. This is a waste of my time." He shrugs. "Then again, I'm on the winning side, that's what's important."

Percy takes the bowl into his hands and cautiously sips. He lowers his eyes demurely, feeling Zabini's eyes on him still.

"This can't be the first time you've been fed here," he says eventually. "When was the last, I wonder?"

Percy doesn't respond, drinking down the broth of the soup feverishly, a little spilling down his chin. He sets the bowl down on his knee, and starts to pick the vegetables out of the drained bowl. Chewing is strange. He can't recall the last time he chewed.

"I get the feeling that you're pulling something, Weasley," Zabini says. "That you're waiting for an opportune moment and then you'll use some sort of master plan. People like you and me, we don't give in. We may surrender but an enemy would be a fool not to expect a retaliation."

Percy shrugs.

"Nothing to say?" Zabini says, a little amused. "Nothing at all? I can't say I'm surprised by any means, but it is a little strange, you know."

"What do you want me to say?" Percy says. He picks a carrot from the bowl and chews it thoughtfully.

Zabini looks relieved that Percy has seemingly not gone mad, or mute. "About Flint," he says. "You'd do best to resist now, if ever, because he's… oddly attached to you, Weasley. He's really got something for you… or against you. If he finds you're indulging him because you fear death at his hands—though I can't imagine he'd be stupid enough to expect otherwise—he'll take it personally and the longer you fool him, the worse it'll be."

Percy tilts his head to the side. "Kill myself sooner rather than later, is what you're saying."

"Flint is better at torture than you'd think. You're just lucky that he's sticking to fucking up your head. Don't make it worse."

"And why should I trust my enemy?"

"You should trust me because, as you say, I'm not much better off than you and there's no real gain for me in steering you wrong."

"There's no real gain for you in steering me right, either," Percy points out.

Zabini shrugs. "I suppose not. Trust me if you will." He pauses. "…Tell me something."

"Why?"

"Just do it, all right?"

"Fine."

"Do you care? Are you just going to indulge him in hopes he might let you go, or are you indulging him because you want to, or do you care at all?"

"Why?"

Zabini is exasperated by the repetition. "Why what?"

"Why are you asking?" He suddenly recalls his original aim, to set Zabini and Flint against one another, and there's a startling moment of emptiness, of apathy, when he realizes it doesn't seem to matter anymore.

"Call it the result of _ennui_. It's this or feed the rest of you lot. You happen to be slightly interesting."

"Am I?" No one has ever found Percy interesting, excepting Penelope, of course. He is dry, practical, cautious.

"…I suppose that's why I'm helping you. Or trying, as much as I can. You are—were what I aspired to be, before all this. Not because of you, but because I was meant to become the Minister." Zabini laughs. "Technically you're the Minister, did you realize that? If there was a Ministry, anyway."

Percy isn't sure if this is a good thing.

"You never answered my question," Zabini says. "What are you going to do?"

Percy tests the weight of the bowl in his hands, and the image of broken crockery on that Muggle's kitchen floor flashes into his head again.

Drop the bowl, it'll break, grab a broken piece and stab him. It's not that hard, a voice within him insists, reasonably.

He looks up to see Zabini staring at him, bewildered, again. "Stop drifting _off_ like that," he says. "Though I suppose that pig of a mother never taught you or the other squalling Weasley brats a bit of manners."

Percy opens his mouth to snap at that, annoyed, but he hears the sound of the door unlocking. Zabini, hearing it too, has the good sense to stand and away from Percy, in case it's Flint.

It's—oh_god_—Bellatrix Lestrange again. Percy stiffens, pressing himself back against the wall. "Weasley," she says in a singsong. "Ickle Weasley, I have a _present_."

He doesn't take his eyes off of her, though he finds her to be a horror, a twisted nightmarish figure made worse by the thought that she may have once been beautiful. The smile on her face is far too wide and unrestrained to mean anything good for him.

"Well, get on with it," Zabini says. "Suspense is extraneous."

Bellatrix shoots Zabini a withering look, then beckons someone in. It's Rodolphus, dragging a limp body in tow. Percy's stomach turns. It would be just like them… _just_ like them to torture someone in front of him. He starts to shake, and he suddenly wishes he'd attacked Zabini before… then maybe he would be free, now.

You're such a fool, Percival. You're such a fool.

He releases his breath in a sharp, shuddering sigh as Rodolphus shoves the limp body at him. He sees a quick glimpse of tattered dark curls before he scrambles up and catches her as best he can, slumping to the ground with her weight on top of him.

It's _her._

How did they know? How could they know? Flint. Of course. Bastard.

She's unconscious but her lips are parted slightly, her face so pale he fears she might not be breathing—but to see her again, if she's not dead, to apologize, to make her understand what he feared—he'd give anything, anything for that to happen.

He brushes her hair out of her face, lies her gently down onto the floor, strokes her cheek. There's a lump in his throat as he looks at her, considers all the sins he's done since last he's seen her.

She's an angel, oh god, she always has been.

He nearly bursts into tears right there, pathetic tears of regret, as trite as it is, when suddenly one of the people watching pins him against a wall with a simple spell. He sniffles uselessly, staring up from Zabini to Bellatrix, who is sneering.

"You're pathetic," she says.

He very nearly agrees.

"You ought to beg for your life," she says. "Or hers."

"Take me," he says. "Not her."

"How _noble_," Rodolphus says, and the word is not a compliment.

"I don't _care_ what you think of me," Percy says. "Just don't touch her, don't bloody touch her."

"No one is untouched by this war, Weasley," Zabini says quietly.

"Don't you dare touch her," he says once more, then sinks into his restraints, closing his eyes tightly, tears coursing down his face.

Bellatrix wanders over—he refuses to look up—and he sees the dark curls of hair that lie on the floor move. He looks up to see Bellatrix lifting the unconscious girl's head. "My love, wake her," she calls to Rodolphus, who obediently comes over and obeys.

"No," Percy whispers, but he's powerless.

Zabini sighs, but it's impossible to tell whether the disgust that lies within the sigh is for him or for the behavior of the two Death Eaters. He leaves, and Percy watches him go, fearing the loss of a kindred spirit.

There's a murmur, and she's awake.

"Mudblood," Bellatrix whispers in a low voice—almost sultry, if he didn't know she was a madwoman. "Open your eyes, Mudblood."

She opens her eyes—clear blue just as he remembers them—oh god, Penelope, he loves her, it's never been clearer than now…

Bellatrix nods to Rodolphus, who presses his wand into her throat. "Open your mouth," he says. Her eyes widen, and she obeys. He dumps the contents of a vial down her throat.

Her eyes go dull. Percy prays—to who, to what? What is there left anymore?—that she isn't dead.

"Tell us everything you saw," Bellatrix says. She looks back at Percy, eyebrow cocked in amusement. "Watch carefully. You're next."


	6. 6

****

Break--Chapter 6

by cyanide blue

Veritaserum. He should have known.

"Your name?" Bellatrix asks, her hand gripping Penelope's limp wrist.

"Penelope Guinevere Clearwater," she says, her tone lifeless.

"What did you see at the siege?"

"_The Daily Prophet_ headquarters hadn't heard about the siege by that point, and I'd Apparated there to get an interview with Minister Fudge, and I ended up directly in the middle of the mess in the Atrium - I got pushed into the fountain by someone, and when I got out, Blaise Zabini, one of the Minister's aides, was dragging Harry Potter past me."

Bellatrix's eyes flash. "Zabini."

"Go on," Rodolphus says, impatiently. Bellatrix glares at her husband, who ignores the look.

"He pushed him out of the Ministry, and I tried to Disapparate but someone had put up a ward, and then someone stunned me and I ended up here."

Bellatrix stands quickly, furiously. "I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD HAVE KILLED HIM," she snarls at Rodolphus.

Rodolphus rises slowly. "Bellatrix, be sensible," he says quietly.

"_Sensible_?" she cries, lashing her wand out at Percy - a tendril shoots out of the end and wraps around his neck, tightening immediately. He claws at it desperately, gasping in little breaths of air.

"Shh, my love..." Percy's glasses now fall off with his tremors, his vision turns red, and with raw pain he faintly recognizes that he's successfully clawed marks into his own flesh, now.

"DON'T YOU DARE SIDE WITH THE TRAITOR." He stiffens as the tendril tightens even more, his legs struggling instinctively.

"My love... we can find the traitor and bathe in his blood, but you mustn't kill the Weasley."

"I don't _care_ about the Weasley." The pressure loosens, Percy manages to get a lungful of air and has never been so grateful.

"Then release him."

He's suddenly freed, and he sinks into the wall, breathing deeply as though he never will again. By then, the Lestranges are gone, and he is alone.

Mostly alone.

Still wheezing, he looks down at Penelope, who is still under the Veritaserum trance. He kisses her slightly parted lips, only noting then that he's in hysterical tears. He can't recall if Veritaserum wears off, so much all that studying for NEWTs did, he can't remember the properties of one of the most feared, best known potions of them all...

"Penelope." It almost hurts to say her name, like the cliché of an old, aching wound on a rainy day. He takes her wrist, strokes her smooth skin reverentially. He lifts her hand, and at a flash of silver, leans in with blind eyes to stare at the Celtic ring on her ring finger. He lets her hand fall limply to her side.

"Why did you keep the ring?" he whispers.

She startles him as she responds in the same flat tone. "Even though he broke my heart, I knew he loved me, no one else would; I couldn't let him go."

He doesn't trust himself to speak again, even if he could. He's afraid he'll ask too many questions, and the flat tone of her voice delivering messages of love is almost sickening with its irony. Instead, he buries his face in her shoulder, hoping against hope that she'll wake.

--

"Get on your feet, Weasley," he hears faintly through sleep, and then his body obeys the order without him even giving it.

Percy blinks, and, in the confusion of the newly awake, attempts to find his glasses. He finds them on the floor, and puts them on, looking up at Flint slowly. "Good morning, Marcus," he says calmly.

As Flint steps close to him, Percy notices it doesn't even bother him anymore. All of his personal space issues (of which there used to be many) are gone. Strange, how men adapt. "Our Lord has an offer for you; for _you_, an insignificant worm underneath his foot. Listen carefully or I'll... _punctuate_ my words with something more persuasive."

Percy looks briefly down at Penelope, who's now curled on her side, eyes closed delicately, facing where Percy had been laying. The Veritaserum must have worn off. Flint grabs his chin. "Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," Percy says reasonably, not struggling. "Make your proposal."

Flint releases him. "The Dark Lord is going to rebuild the Ministry, to regain the people's favor. You will be the new Minister of Magic. You will act on your Lord's behalf... _imparting_ his wisdom to the unenlightened."

"..._What_?"

"You would pass legislation that would, of course, prohibit Mudbloods from being considered citizens; they'll be as good as property. Your pretty little Mudblood whore there, she could be yours - not your wife, you can't marry _property_, anyway, and we have that planned as well."

"A wife?" Percy asks, fairly sure that he's going mad again.

"You needn't make it sound like a punishment," Flint says, raising an eyebrow. "This is an excellent offer, better than death."

"Betray everything I stand for," he says, aware that he is, on some deeper level, getting very angry, "to make your little political charade work."

"What do you stand for, Weasley?" Flint scoffs. "I don't believe you stand for anything but yourself."

Percy makes no effort to deny. "And that isn't me."

Flint flicks his wand and a sharp, shining metallic point like a Muggle surgical instrument comes from the tip. "It's that or nothing."

"Nothing?" he asks, though he knows what the answer will be.

Flint runs his thumb against the scratches Percy gave himself during Bellatrix's rage and Percy winces at the rivulets of pain. He then takes the metal tip of his wand and runs it against one of the large scratches; Percy stiffens and shudders, gives a soft moan, and Flint likes that. He lifts the tip from Percy's neck and runs it along his collarbone, kissing him roughly while grinding their hips together.

Percy drowns in his senses, not sure whether he's in pain or pleasure or a strange mix of the two, and once Flint breaks away he finds himself moaning. The collar of his shirt is wet with blood, and the last time he'd let himself go this much was his last time with Penelope. Flint pants, dipping his head to lick away the stream of blood from the wound on Percy's neck.

From over Flint's shoulder he sees Penelope stirring, her eyes opening. He tries not to react visibly as he feels, caught, degenerate. She starts to sit up, and Percy gives her a quick negatory look. Flint notices, and looks around, stepping away from Percy to kneel next to Penelope. "Good morning, Mudblood. Pity you gave up on this one, he's quite a snog."

Percy is only halfway to sitting when he hears this, and practically falls the rest of the way. He looks up to see Penelope giving him a startled look, but Flint goes on: "I gave him a chance, you know, and I think he'll take it, with a bit more persuasion..."

"Stop," Percy says weakly.

"Percival," Penelope begins, but Flint puts a finger to her lips.

"You'll agree?"

"... Give me a day and you'll have your answer."

"We could find someone else," Flint says, rolling his eyes.

"No one that would know what they're _doing_, you've killed the lot."

He pauses. "A day? From now."

"From now," Percy agrees.

Flint takes his hand from Penelope's lips and extends it to Percy. "For a true wizards' pact."

Percy knows what it means, of course, and is hesitant to take Flint's hand. No one wants to bind their fate to someone like Flint. Nonetheless... as he takes Flint's hand and shakes it, he looks to Penelope, who has had her unwavering gaze on him since the start.

Flint rises, flicking his wand again so the knife retracts, and strides out. The door is promptly shut and locked.

Penelope sits up, staring at him with those wide blue eyes, and he stares back helplessly. "Let me help," she says after a long silence, shuffling close to him and ripping cloth from her already frayed skirt.

"Wh - "

"To stop the bleeding," she explains, "and to clean up what's lost." She blushes, saying an apology under her breath before spitting on the piece of cloth and carefully tilting his head back so she can clean the blood from his neck and shoulder. "I suppose it was a good idea to stay with work," she says, continuing to work diligently.

He can't think of anything to say to that. She always could make him speechless. He closes his eyes, lets her work on him, falling into a meditative state until she touches his cheek, and his eyes open up. Her face is close to his, her breath on his cheek, and he cherishes that as a blessing he never thought he'd receive again.

"If you do it, I won't blame you," she says.

It takes him a moment to realize what she's referring to, then he nods slowly. "It is the best possible situation."

"For yourself," Penelope interrupts. "For you, for your kind. Not mine."

"Penny - "

"Percival, please, just understand - if you do that, you will be set up as our martyr."

He stares at her. "What?"

She frowns. "If you were to do this, and then you rebelled against Voldemort's wishes, you would be just what the Muggleborn resistance needs. A symbol. Something to rally those who support them. You would be famous, even if you only reigned thirty minutes."

"You're saying I'd die," Percy repeats.

Penelope shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Percival, I just meant to..."

"Prepare me for the reality of the situation," he finishes. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Most don't. Most martyrs think they're immortal." Before she can go on, he kisses her, fully aware that he kissed Marcus Flint with this mouth and greatly enjoyed it, because this is what really matters. Flint's manipulations mean nothing in the scheme of things; he loves Penelope, would do anything for her.

She buries her head in the unwounded part of his shoulder and presses herself close to him, warming, relaxing, comforting and seeking comfort. He puts his arms around her, kissing her forehead before leaning into her as well.

Would he die for her sake? For the sake of her kind, for her safety? Or will he forsake her safety for his own, go against everything that his family instilled in him?

For now, he doesn't think; he presses his face into her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of Penelope, and has a rare moment of bittersweet peace and freedom there.


	7. 7

****

Break - Chapter 7

Madness. That's what the whole thing's been, prisoners always go a bit mad, it's the way of things. Soon they'll be free, and he can take Penelope away from this place, and he'll never have to think about Flint and how the flash of dark, insane desire in Flint's eye makes his knees give. He'll be the Minister, father Penny's children, and everything will be fine.

He strokes her cheek as though to affirm her existence, as though she'll shatter into a waking dream at a single touch. She looks back at him, eyes half-closed and soft, and he tries a smile. She smiles back, surprised, and he's back to fifth year again, an awkward shy bookish boy caught in the light of an angel's smile.

"So, Minister Weasley," she says.

He'd never admit, but she likely knows how much of a thrill those two words together give him. "Yes?"

"Will you have any room in your busy political life for a clever Mudblood?"

"More than enough."

She laughs, though it's stilted. It feels wrong, uncomfortable, to take joy in this terrible thing, this deal with the Devil.

There's the sudden whip-crack of Apparation, and Percy pulls Penelope closer, not really wanting to see what's awaiting him.

"Very sweet, really, I should have known." Zabini.

Percy stares up at him. "What are you doing here."

"That's a good question. That's a _really_ fucking good question. I don't know. Well, do you want out or not?" Zabini paces, agitated, and quickly casts an Imperturbable Charm on the room.

Penelope pulls away from Percy. "Out. You can get us out?"

"I don't know how long it'll take for them to notice I'm here, it depends on that, but yes, I can try." Zabini offers Penelope a hand up, and she accepts automatically.

"I thought you were - " She directs her gaze to the inside of Zabini's left arm, where his sleeve is bunched up over the Dark Mark.

"I am," he says, "complicated, don't ask. It's within my interests to ruin this little plan of Flint's."

Percy stands, more stable than ever before in this prison. "You saved Harry."

"Within my interests." Zabini shrugs.

"Who do you work for?"

Zabini groans. "Why does it matter? I'm getting you out of here. Come on, Weasley, we're going."

Percy sends Penelope a worried look. "Penelope's coming with."

Zabini makes a sound of disgust. "I only brought one wand with me. I honestly thought they would've killed her." He withdraws a wand from his pocket and tosses it to Percy. "Unless you can Disapparate the both of you, the girl stays."

"Go," Penelope says firmly, before Percy can get an indignant response out.

"Penny!" he manages.

She grabs his shoulder to calm him, then presses close to him; he puts his arms around her, not wanting to let her go now that he has her again. She pushes herself away, before giving in once more to kiss him. She puts a finger to his lips once she pulls away, murmuring, "Go."

Percy pushes the wand into her hand. "I'll survive here."

"Are you joking?" she asks, disgusted, dropping the wand as though it's something abhorrent. "Don't you try that on me, Percival, both you and I know that you'll do anything to survive - _don't_ you lie to me."

He stares at her, dumbfounded, as he can find no words. She's right. He does love her, but he can live without her.

He is a wretched being.

"Pen - "

"Make up your fucking mind!" Zabini snaps, edging on hysterical. "You think I have all day?"

"I'll come back for you," he says, but it feels like such a lie, despite that he feels it, he really does. But he doesn't have a good record with this sort of thing.

For a moment, her cool facade breaks. "Don't forget me," she pleads, "don't leave me again."

"I won't," he swears. "I won't."

She kisses him again, desperately, fervently as if trying to leave him with a lasting memory of her. If possible, he feels even worse.

Zabini Disapparates. Percy quickly follows.

They end up in the parlor of a musty old mansion; Zabini lounges onto a settee, and Percy attempts to get his bearings. "What now?" he finally says.

"What do free men do?" Zabini asks him, irony sharp in his voice.

"I'm not free, they'll, they'll catch me if I go out there," Percy protests.

"_Relax_, Weasley. Just wait. There's not much we can do quite yet."

"We're going to get Penelope out of there," and it's half a question, half a demand.

"Eventually? I guess."

"No. We have to get her out of there."

Zabini sits up. "Fuck, Weasley, this is a war, there are more important things on the line than your little Mudblooded girlfriend."

"If she dies," Percy says heatedly, "if anything happens to her because you want to _wait_, you're getting it twicefold."

Zabini says nothing to that, staring reflectively at the curtained window. "Do you want to hide, or do you want to fight?"

Percy starts. "How can I fight, they're - "

"Answer the question."

"I - I don't know." He's never been much of a fighter, but... his family, Penny...

"The resistance damn well better thank me," Zabini drawls. "Losing you is a distraction that they can exploit."

"The resistance is still going?"

"Enough to be an annoyance, but not enough to win."

Percy pauses, then sits, and it finally occurs to him. "Where are we?"

Zabini laughs. "Zabini Manor. Grandad's place. All the way out in Wiltshire, hardly anyone knows it's here. _We_ lived in London, I hate it out here, but it's better than the alternative."

"So we're safe here."

"Safer than we would be in London, though that doesn't say much. Anyway, you never answered my question. Fight or flight?"

"I can't exactly fight," Percy admits.

"...Fight is the wrong word. I'd say 'resist' is closer."

"Are you part of it?"

"Why, would you join up for the extra quality time?" Zabini asks dryly. "I'm not part of anything."

"You have the Mark," Percy points out.

"That doesn't mean anything. I don't work for anyone, and I don't regret anything I've done."

"Of course," Percy says skeptically. He can't imagine a life like that.

"Just because you're guilt-ridden doesn't mean the rest of us have to be." Zabini rolls his eyes.

"Voldemort owns you," Percy counters. "You can't ignore that Mark on your arm."

"We aren't talking about me right now. I know what I'm doing, you don't. Stop changing the subject."

"Am I hitting a weak spot?"

"Fuck off. I'm going to contact the resistance. If you want food, I have some left in the kitchen." Zabini Disapparates.

Percy sinks back into the chair, and tries not to think about that parting kiss, and he knows he should have stayed. Penelope would have escaped, he could have stayed and made the noble sacrifice of his morals and then his life, but...

He is a wretched being.

The truth has not, and will not set him free.


	8. 8

**Break - Chapter 8**

Percy wakes up knowing that something's gone wrong, and he is certain that he doesn't want to know what it is. The bed Zabini placedhim in is comfortable, and he revels in the cool sheets for a moment. The changes of environment he's been through are tremendous; from a sweaty room at the Burrow, to a cramped efficiency flat perfect for yet another Ministry drone, to a blood-soaked cell that in retrospect does not feel real, to the simple luxury of Zabini Manor.

Percy is sweating. He sits up, rubs at his eyes, reaches for his glasses. After a moment, he turns to greet Zabini's crisp gaze on him as he stands in the doorway.

"Scrimgeour's dead," Zabini says, delivers it with the right timbre for a rigid fence-sitter.

Percy always liked Scrimgeour. There was no first-name status, no good-old-boy talk, Scrimgeour was all business and rules and orders. He was always in the head of the enemy, no matter who the enemy was, Voldemort or Harry Potter himself. It was all about strategy. Minister Fudge was one kind of man, but Minister Scrimgeour was another, more efficient type. A bastard, truly, but a smart one.

He's surprised to find himself saddened. He didn't think he could mourn for anyone anymore, not with the sheer numbers of the dead, but he was wrong. "Who killed him?"

Zabini walks in, all aristocratic grace. Long ago Percy would have envied him this, this house and this life. Well, at least he had never been faced with the decision; _the Mark or your life, or the lives of your family..._ "There's some debate on that, but I personally suspect it was Theodore Nott."

The name is not familiar to Percy. "A Death Eater?"

Zabini _laughs_, a sound of pure appreciation. "No," he nearly sneers, and takes a seat on the bed. "Shall I give you a lesson in recent politics, Weasley?"

"Recent politics, see the obituaries in _The Daily Prophet_," Percy says dully; he's the last of their kind to survive, isn't he? How ridiculous.

Zabini seems annoyed with him. "The Ministry isn't everything. I told you of the resistance?" When Percy gives a weary nod, he goes on. "These things aren't simple, Weasley - this was my _job_, to know these things, to be able to predict their movements. It's just pure logic." He raises two fingers. "Two resistance groups. One. The 'blood-traitors,' shall we say, those who give a damn about _rights_ for Mudbloods. The ones who believe Potter is still alive... et cetera. There's more to that, but we'll start out _slow_..."

Percy desperately wants a cup of tea, but even now politeness seems to matter. He gives Zabini a withering glare for that "slow" comment, but fixes his glasses and continues to listen. "And the second group?"

Zabini looks to his impeccable fingernails instead of Percy. It's strange in such an intimate setting, and for Zabini who rarely seems awkward at all. "The second group are the real purity fighters. Some former Death Eaters, not many. They realize the truth of the matter, that the Dark Lord is ... is _mad_, and not really fighting for purity. Not anymore. It's all about Harry Potter. One halfblood for the lives of several hundred purebloods?" He speaks with pure disgust. "_No_."

"But of course they work separately," Percy reasons. Ideology makes every difference in the world, from Fudge to Scrimgeour to Mr. Crouch, all of whom had the right ideas but simply couldn't unite the people.

The vitriol recedes, leaving Zabini as dry as before. "They bicker," he says, with weariness aging his voice. "Padma and Theo had a particularly heated exchange over Draco Malfoy, before she was captured."

"You're in the second group," Percy realizes.

Zabini shrugs, running his fingertips over the patterned duvet. "I dabbled, it was brief, I had bigger and better things - "

" - You're still talking to them now, though," Percy clarifies, sitting forward. His robes are constricting, and he sees a disgusted look on Zabini's face, so he looks down. His robes are stained with blood.

"We must get you out of those," Zabini says, nearly spits as though the words, the concept, taste bitter on his tongue. "It's disgusting."

Percy finds the idea of a squeamish Death Eater very entertaining. He looks at the other man discerningly, and smiles. "I'm not sure your robes will fit me."

Zabini appears not to appreciate that remark. "My mother's might. Remember who your savior is."

Percy slips out of the bed, sheds the robes. His underclothes, a thin shirt and trousers, are in equal disrepair, and once the robes hit the ground, it becomes very obvious that he smells. It's only logical, but it is an awful smell; blood, sweat, tears, urine, nearly every human emission possible.

Zabini gives an offended cough at the odor. "Go shower. _Now_. It's three doors down on the right." A command from the master of the house. Percy shucks clothing off as he goes - just to irk Zabini - and steps into the shower.

This is luxury, this is comfort, the water always warm and the soap full of moisturizer and all those useless, wasteful things. He washes himself, scrubs his hair clean, but is very nearly reduced to tears as soap enters the knife wound from Flint -

The pain raises the memory, and it only takes that much to stoke the sick lust in him again. To his horror, his body again reacts, but this time, he accepts it, and nurses it. He bites his lip, finishes it, and afterwards as tile bites into his thin back, he imagines a naked and smiling Penelope, as though that will erase it all.

He cleans himself, turns off the water, towels himself and his hair dry. He reaches for his glasses and the towel at the same time. He wraps the towel around his waist, and realizes there is a crack through the left lens of his glasses. It's been there for at least four days, and he hasn't even noticed. It has been a very busy week, he thinks with a wry smile.

Percy stands up straight and feels renewed, as though he's cleansed Flint and his torture away, until he leaves the washroom and he sees that Zabini has been standing beside the door. For how long? "Do you have robes for me?" he asks, ignoring the ill feeling of being caught at perversion.

The look Zabini gives him is tinged with amusement. Percy knows that he heard. "Of course, do you prefer any color?"

Forgetting that he is half-naked and his ego is at the mercy of Zabini's unsparing humor, Percy stares at him. "Funny," he says, voice flat.

Zabini releases a snort of laughter. It is so apparently unlike him that Percy automatically smiles at the change. "It's on the bed. Get dressed. We'll eat, and we'll go." He walks away from Percy with his brisk I'm-too-busy-for-this strides, and adds without turning back, "And don't toss one off in there again, my mother bathes in that bathtub."

Percy could not be more relieved at such a mild joke; it could be much worse than that. "Where are we going?" he calls after Zabini.

Zabini doesn't stop walking, he doesn't even turn. "The resistance. What's left of it." Then he has disappeared entirely down the stairwell, and Percy returns to the bedroom to put his new clothes on. They fit well enough.

Percy eats breakfast ravenously, only noticing Zabini watching him as he takes his second-to-last forkful. "You're going to have a scar," Zabini says.

"So?" Part of Percy wants a reminder of his dark side, of Flint's swaggering perverted charm. The other imagines how he'll have to lie to any of those who see, explain stutteringly that the Death Eaters were not so kind to him at first... but Percy is a good liar, at least. He takes another forkful of eggs in order to make Zabini speak in turn.

"Daphne's a Healer. She may help you, she may not. They are _all_ aware of the offer Flint gave you, but they are not aware that you are now free." Restless, Zabini twirls the fork between his fingers, a delicate and hypnotic action. His eggs remain untouched but for a few cursory bites. "I have my doubts that Flint's little plan would have worked."

Percy sits back in the chair, deciding against that last bite of food. "Why wouldn't it?"

"I'm not saying they're smart," Zabini says. The fork's movement is reversed. "They would cast the Imperius Curse on you. This would not be because they would expect you to rebel, but because they are a cult of fear, and they feel that they must have control over everything. Every person with that Mark on their arms feels the need to control something."

"So you're saying I'd have just wound up a pawn and of no use to either side of the resistance." Percy's gaze remains on the utensil in Zabini's long fingers. The agitation in the way it is being manipulated...

Zabini drops the fork, and Percy starts as it clatters to the floor. Percy's gaze returns to Zabini's face, his cheeks beginning to flame. "Exactly," Zabini says. He tilts his head and dons an amused expression. "Aren't you going to ask me?"

_The next Percy Weasley._ Percy considers it apt, but not too much so; Zabini is almost an improvement. "Ask you what?"

Zabini's grin is grim, wry, and sets Percy on edge. It fits the musty scent of death and cold feel of stone in the Dark Lord's dungeons more than the easy luxury of Zabini Manor. "It's time to leave." He throws Percy the spare wand, and Percy catches it.

Percy wonders if Odysseus intended to be a hero, or if he even expected adventure. Percy isn't an Auror or a Hit Wizard; he does not want to face Dark Wizards, and yet he's done little more than that for months now. Born in the midst of war, to the wrong family, as the middle child, was he destined for this? He doesn't want it. God or Merlin or whoever is watching over him, he does not want this. From here, it can only get worse.

Zabini Disapparates. He has no choice. He follows.


End file.
